


Scar (t)issue

by Irena_Lyre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied divorce, John can’t get it up, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Frustration, for good reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irena_Lyre/pseuds/Irena_Lyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to make peace with a mortal wound. Post Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar (t)issue

They are having less sex than John thought they would be.

They have just passed along the staircase, the very same staircase where John used to trail behind the impatient strides of his colleague/flatmate, his eyes on the finer arse bouncing underneath fine trousers, mouth hanging slightly open like a creep. He never dared to think whether Sherlock cared to deduce that. Nor did he dare to think of that arse underneath his fingers, nude, as it is now. His stronger palm presses down in a circular motion, cupping the smooth curvature, one finger sneaking between the cheeks. Sherlock grunts, the breath out of his mouth hot and moist against the more sensitive shoulder of John’s.

It’s funny how people often associate randomness with chaos. The layman may be surprised to learn that smooth skin is actually random, as naturally distributed collagen is; while scars, whatever the cause, come from the frantic effort of the very same cells forming in one unified direction to pull close a wound. John has a large patch of that orderliness, though it looks nothing like it, on his shoulder. A certain number of his (former) companions frowned upon it. John didn't mind. Mary had smiled understandingly. John was relieved. Sherlock adores it. His lips would touch upon it, trailing along the ridges of hardened tissues with intrigue and awe. John is not surprised. Sherlock adores gore in general. For a man who prefers to hang out at a morgue, surely he has seen worse. He likes it. He gets off on it.

That is not to say John appreciates such attention any less. Occasionally he resents the barrier of dull cells between his more perceptive dermis and the nudge of lips, soft and wet mostly, or chapped(dehydration!) and stubble-ly right after a long case. It’s all good.

Right now, the more prominent sensation is a burgeoning penis against his pelvis. John turns his head. Sherlock does not hide a smirk on his face, his pale hand relentlessly kneading the soft knot of flesh that is John’s groin. John’s half-smile is an apologetic affirmation. They’re past the phase of treating it like a sensitivity, and John doesn’t mind.

If he were still with a woman, this might be an issue of greater chagrin – understandably, John muses. _Ah, the perks of gay sex._ One click of a tube later, a long finger is prodding inside of him. _The right hand._ John never tells Sherlock that his left fingertips are actually hardened enough to make a difference; it’ll sound pesky. Not a proper regard for his delicate instrument of music, at the least. He might say that sometime just to make Sherlock laugh. Not right now, not when a less callused finger is finding a way to his – _oh_. John gains an erection, a physiological reflex. Sherlock pauses, his nostrils hissing. _A question_.

“Yeah, fine.” John answers, lifting off Sherlock’s finger. Without turning around, he wiggles backwards between Sherlock’s legs, and feels his anus slowly dilating around Sherlock’s girth.

\---

_Just because something is there, one is not obliged to look at it._

John Watson is a brave man, judged so by others and himself, privately. He likes to face his battles as they come. The chances of walking away with scars is an entirely separate consideration. Thus he did not avoid the inclusion of a few photo albums, when he packed for Baker Street. In these volumes which will ultimately fade are the happier times with a woman he claims to have loved, who ended up calling him boring. Not that _boring_ is the greatest insult out there. To live with Sherlock Holmes is to know that boring is _everyone_. Of course John Watson is capable of being boring, exceedingly so when his mind is hovering elsewhere. But Sherlock never calls him that. John’s day is boring, John’s favourite show is boring, even John’s blog about _Sherlock_ is boring. But _John_ is never boring.

John does not look at those photo albums. He, after all, does not like a reminder of being called boring. It is well that Sherlock does not do that, ever.

Nor does he look at himself. Well, not in the nude, anyway. Though he has never been the vain sort of a bloke, he is not in anyway ashamed of the visually distressing mishap on his body – it is as honourable as any shiny badge the British Crown cared to throw at him, if not more. But he does not like a reminder of being shattered, of being in need of salvation instead of acting the saviour he is – confusion, panic, pain, a hazy cloud of curt commands from shuffling others, the exact meaning of each all unfortunately understood by himself. He does not look at it.

But he cannot _not_ look at Sherlock.

\---

“It’s going to rain.” Sherlock says, not looking up from his notebook.

John agrees in silence. This is not a deduction from the clouds over London skyline or the ants on the pavement. On this chilly Autumn day they both feel it in their bones. John hates it. He wishes that Sherlock not be able to do that, at least not _yet_ , not until old age has properly enfeebled the proud man once deemed indestructible. But wishes seldom make things go his way. To lighten up his own mood John thinks of some crack along the lines of offering their expertise to the Met Office instead of Scotland Yard; he decides against its actual funniness, and gets up to make tea, the more effective alternative.

The kettle sings, the light drizzle tapping at the window adding a low but distinct sort of percussion to it. Sounds like it could be icy. John briefly thinks of relocating to somewhere warmer, so he moves back into the living room. Sherlock’s gaze is cast downwards, brows slightly furrowed over his own handwriting. John has often found himself jealous of the subjects of Sherlock’s fascination, be it lively bacteria, a theorem of electromechanics, or a smart woman. The tea is making his throat dry, surprisingly.

John picks up the other mug, and carries it to Sherlock’s right hand side. Sherlock acknowledges the sweetened comfort drink with a low hum. John does not set it down without brushing their knuckles. Sherlock looks up. John’s fingers close in to wrap around his.

“Stop working,” John murmurs, as if into Sherlock’s hair.

“I’m not,” Sherlock arches back in answer, a childish gleam in his eyes.

John’s lips lean down to touch his philtrum, before swinging around to properly capture his mouth. Hot tea swishes out of the mug as John pushes back the desk to make room, splattering on the notebook. Sherlock doesn’t mind. John’s tongue against his tongue is a more welcomed warmth, and John’s movements over his body a more engaging study. His shirt, with all those buttons, is not bothered with. John has pulled down his trousers most efficiently, and is now nuzzling the bulge in his briefs, a slyness at the corner of his mouth.

The confined space within a writing chair is… _interesting_.

\---

John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he gets back on his feet. His reddened eyes lock with Sherlock’s for a brief moment, before he heads to the bathroom. Too spent to make a movement, Sherlock closes his eyes with a long exhale, his mind blissfully vacant even of incomprehension.

John sits on the closed toilet, trousers rolled down to his ankles, warm water running loud in the shower. He acknowledges the absurdity of such a pretense; not exactly environment-conscious. It’s actually quite pathetic, for a man in his forties living with a very sexy partner – is this what they are? _Partners_? John strokes his erection very slowly.

Marriages change people. A failed one, ironically, holds the strongest of such power.

 _Really, John, after all that I went through for the two of you_ , Sherlock had laughed to his face at the eventuality. _What a dickhead_. In any event, John is in no rush to make that commitment again, not with the one person he cannot afford to let down – _but you did let him down, time after time, didn't you_? He smiles at his crotch bitterly. Fortunately for him, Sherlock is not the type demanding of a formality. But formality is the least of his concerns. He shudders, silently cursing himself for mentally conjuring what he tries so hard _not_ to see.

He _had_ seen it, actually, before the dutiful formation of the collagen cells, that was. Funny enough, at the time his little brain was still flooded by a proposal scene. Seeing his _friend_ on the floor could well be an unexplained part of the ruse, until – _oh look, a mortal wound_.

_But he had a record of faking his own death, hadn’t he?_

The crowd off an ambulance rushed in, people who would call him a colleague, were he not standing around uselessly. Confusion, panic, pain, a hazy cloud of curt commands from shuffling others, the exact meaning of each all unfortunately understood by himself – it was all in there. _Flat-lining_. _Surgery my arse, Sherlock, say that to the face of an army surgeon who knows better._ John’s hand is pumping faster now. This counts as angry sex, though the source of the anger is quite unspecified. Himself, his foolish choice of a wife, Sherlock’s stupid scheme against Moriarty, Stamford’s questionable taste in friends, the Afghan shrapnel - all the way down to the Big Bang that Sherlock does not care about.

The anger at the Universe is taking over the sex. John groans in dismal.

Granted, he has caught glimpses of _it_ afterwards. After they _began_ , anyway. He would not ask Sherlock to fuck him with a shirt on, no, that would be pathetic, but he diverts his eyes from _it_ as much as he can. He began to lose his boner frequently, as is happening now. John sighs, resolving to pull his pants up, and switches off the water.

As if _this_ is not pathetic.

\---

“Let me see it,” John whispers on the pillow.

Sherlock’s hand stills on the switch of the bedside lamp. “You have already.”

John shakes his head. “No, I really haven’t.”

“What for?” Sherlock hurls the question, somewhat sternly.

John is temporarily struck. “Um, nothing. You seem to be… fond… of mine? ”

Sherlock does not deny it. He does not move either. John tugs at the hem of his pyjama shirt, an earnestness in his voice. “Sherlock, please? ”

Sherlock’s side of the mattress dips slightly with his exhale. “I am fond of yours for a reason, John.” He turns, soft lips grazing the irregular formation underneath John’s shirt.

“I am a selfish man, John, you know that. This…it brought you home. To me.” Sherlock’s voice is exceedingly small. His face is concealed in the shadow. “Sorry.”

It is almost exhilarating to John’s ears. Queen and Country did not prepare him to think of it that way. Had Sherlock said it before, prior to two very dark years, he might have laughed heartily, and everything might have been different – _no_ , it does absolutely no good to think like that. The intertwined part of their lives weights heavily upon John’s heart, and sometimes he wonders, _what if_ they never met. No scar for John, and no scar for Sherlock, just living their messed-up lives somewhere, separately. _How does that sound_.

“It still hurts sometimes, you know.”

“I know, I know! Sorry.” _Of course he knows. His is still fresh._

John bows down his head, guilty of a false accusation he did not intend. He mouths the front of Sherlock’s shirt, trembling. _It’s there._ The circular entrance of a most vicious penetration is alarmingly regular. No amount of kissing will make it any better, but John does it anyway.

_If my lips could smooth out the lumps, my anything could take away the hurt. Why did it have to happen._

“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Sherlock snaps. He yanks off his shirt, chest bared, tilting his head to look at John in the eyes, not blinking. John stares back for a second before following suit.

Now fully exposed under John’s scrutinisation, Sherlock’s scar is grotesque. There’s no need to argue for it. Cold-blood cruelty in a spidery form, embedded in Sherlock’s otherwise flawless torso. It is not even a mark of honour. More accurately, it’s the product of a dash of indiscretion, and too much misplaced faith.

In short, idiocy. _Sherlock Holmes is bearing a distinction of stupidity_.

“You were not as good as you thought, right.” John breathes against his earlobe. The light is redundant. John’s fingers trail over the outstanding ugliness in the dark, while Sherlock’s hand clutches to his shoulder, the one with the scar.

They fall asleep like that, safe and warm in the half-nakedness of each other, if only for the night.

\---

Spring is always a great time for weddings, which makes John’s ex-anniversary hard to forget. Acting like the brave man he reckons himself to be, John ventures to look into the photo albums of old. Sherlock is out of the flat for the day, coincidently or not, John does not know. Sherlock never brings up this day John once considered to be the most important of his life, but it’s been so long, and John needs to sort things out, needs to get certain stuff out of his head.

Though he is not sure how _looking_ is supposed to help.

The album from the wedding day is, of course, the one of the prettiest cover, despite the Department of Evidence at Scotland Yard being the origin of its retrieved contents, amusingly. John likes pretty, so he opens it up. It was undoubtedly the most interesting wedding in all of England, where first the photographer, then the bride, turned out to be murderers. Some argue that the best man did as well; upon that point John disagrees very strongly – if that be the verdict, count the groom in also. It was really no coincidence that they ended up at the same church. Nevertheless, Jonathan Small took some very impressive photographs, John is reminded uncomfortably.

The first few pages were from outside of the church. Through the distracting shower of confetti John spots Sherlock first in every frame. Standing tall and proud, looking extra dashing in that tux, _scar-free_. Something grips John’s stomach. He clears his throat, not sure what for. And in those shots, Sherlock gazes at him. Always. _Were all the pictures like that?_ It’s slightly unnerving. John flips through the pages quickly.

The setting shifts from the bright exterior to an even brighter interior. _Ah, the longest best man’s speech ever,_ though in no way boring. John remembers very clearly the fuzziness of the moment, but he had no idea he looked at Sherlock right there _like that_. In a shot that excluded Mary, they are _two grooms_.

John becomes exceedingly embarrassed. Presumably all the guests in that hall had figured out more than he did. _That’s why no one seemed very surprised by the break-up, dammit_.

 _There’s a reason why Mary was never a big fan of this album._ Mary is smart, while John is amongst the dumbest on Earth.

The door downstairs clicks before John gets to the altar. He closes up the album, and shoves it back to his shelf.

 _Looking_ is never as helpful as _facing_.

\---

The evening descends, and they have retired to the bedroom early. John’s mouth is rubbing over the middle of Sherlock’s chest, where his heartbeats can be felt. Sherlock lets him now. _Heartbeats are good_. John’s tongue grazes over the eerily regular formation, his mind flickering to a warmer, infinitely more intimate circular opening. The wanton thought pumps hot blood to his groin, the pronounced effect momentary. He pays no attention to it.

“I kept your rings for the day.” Sherlock says abruptly. _Of course he remembers._

“Yes, that was in your job description.” John flexes his left hand, where an expensive metal constraint has left its mark on a finger whose connection to the heart is completely unwarranted by Fact. _A scar of a lesser degree_. _A distinction of stupidity_ , fittingly. He kisses Sherlock on the neck, along a throbbing pulse that’s more evidently connected to the heart, not looking at him in the face. “Not good?”

“A bit not good, yeah.” Sherlock’s head leans against his, voice slightly coarse. “You said, _I do_.”

John stares down at the newly grown muscles filling up a once-mortal hollow. The darkened circle begins to curiously bend with the image of a shiny wedding ring.

 _The shot was fired long before the bullet_. But not without going through John first.

John lightly prods a finger at the tender flesh. Sherlock gasps, wincing slightly, incredulous of the violation. John does not apologise. The convoluted tissues on Sherlock’s body are twisted in a vortex of dread, whipping up feelings he would rather chuck out of his Memory Bungalow. But they are grown inside of him now.

“You said, _Goodbye, John_.”

He probably shouldn’t have brought _that_ back. It’s not an attempt of a justification, a reasonable, albeit cheap one, if it were. He simply wants to, _needs_ to, force it out of his system like venom. Even if it means inadvertently exposing another to the dark toxic.

Sherlock is silent. _Sorry_ is redundant. Are they _even_ now?

New cuts, in whatever direction, only add to the injury. _It will never be even_.

A scar, on the other hand, holds a wound together in a unified effort, however ugly the form. It will never be perfect and smooth again, but it will heal. With time.

“John, it hurts.” _An admission._ Of nothing in particular. _Of everything_.

“I know, Sherlock, I know.” John presses kisses to his hooded eyes, sucking away the saltiness he knows to be there. It’s more bitter on his tongue than he imagined.

They do not have sex for the night, yet John is strangely reminded of _consummation_. Their naked skins furrow together under the duvet, lightly rubbing and softly kissing, not falling into sleep for a long time.

Someday John might venture to ask for a story from Sherlock’s time away, and listen to it with mild interest. _Blog_ about it, even. _Not now_.

\---

The air is too heavily burdened with heated moisture, even for Summer. They have not been out of the flat for a few days due to the impending flood warning, or general laziness. Sherlock does not change out of his pyjamas, underneath which John knows to be no pants. John tries not to sexualise it, since it is indeed simply a choice for comfort. At the moment, Sherlock is sitting on the coffee table for no apparent good reason, his curls casually dishevelled. He clicks the remote to shut off babblings from BBC One concerning the havoc in the storm’s path, and lights up a cigarette like he’s just taking tea.

John frowns. Even with all the windows open, such bad manner is not to be excused, but he says nothing yet. Sherlock hollowing his cheeks always reminds John of something else. “ _Rude_ ,” John mutters under his breath.

A puff of satisfaction rises from Sherlock’s pursed lips. “I need some.”

“Gimme.” John yanks the roll from his fingers. He sticks it in his own mouth, tasting the wetness from Sherlock’s, and inhales. The fume sends him into a violent coughing fit, making Sherlock laugh. “Really, John, now? You’re a doctor.”

 _Dimples and freckles and stubbles_. The man of alien features looks less pristine and more real at close range. John watches the creases on his face radiate. “I have bad days.”

John forces the glowing end of the roll on the surface of the table, watching it extinguish. A hole appears in the tabloid underneath, expanding at first, then stops at its own burnt edges. The sky is rumbling overhead.

“Come here.” Leaning down, John cups Sherlock’s face in his hands to take his lips between his own. The taste of stale second-hand smoke is gross. John twirls his tongue to cleanse it out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock struggles free, gasping for air, his breath heavier than the surrounding saturation.

 _The living room is going to get flooded_. They don’t care.

“Get up.” They have followed each other into the bedroom. Whatever has helped, it isn’t the nicotine. The window is not open, retaining a mind-numbing degree of humidity. They fall onto the mattress anyway, most conveniently stripped in the process. John splays on top of Sherlock, his mouth dipped between the clavicles, where an abundantly salty pool is forming. John’s chin is touching the extended scar tissue from right below, a mirror image of his own left shoulder that does now produce sweat anymore. John kisses his way down. He rests his head on Sherlock’s belly to see the full extent of the damage, his cock thickening.

_Scars are bad. But healing is good._

“Lift,” John murmurs, tentatively guiding a leg over his right shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes snap wide, mouth agape with intrigue and anticipation. John smiles at him, kissing the tender inner thigh before dipping his hand to further spread apart the arses. The obscenity of the sight sends John shuddering. Almost in a panic, he squeezes out half a tube of gel into his palm, still not trusting it to be enough. Sherlock grins, then grimaces, as John’s hand smoothes from the tip of his erection down to the root, then further behind.

“Open up for me, Sherlock, let me.” John’s voice is not as steady as his hand.

A lightening strikes somewhere in a distance. John doesn’t mind the flash, their over-due intimacy sheltered from the majestic backdrop of Nature by isolation. Sherlock rolls as he takes in the tip of John’s coated finger. A high-pitched whimper, embarrassingly out-of-character to his rich low voice, escapes between his teeth. A more sustainable wave of breathy _oh_ ’s follows, when more of John’s fingers slips in. The scar tissue rises and falls with Sherlock’s heaving chest. It is still unacceptable, and it never will be. But in John’s eyes, it’s getting more becoming than before, slowly.

 _There is no off switch_. Nothing would erase the mark of pain from a distant past that has become their persons. But it can get _better_. _It can always get better_.

John retracts his fingers.

_The storm is coming at any time._

Sherlock’s moans become hurried with the pace of John’s hip – John could still make out the sound of his own name from it. He has both of his hands pinning Sherlock’s hip, a greedy, possessive grip, frustratingly slicked by the mixture of lube and sweat between them. He has wanted this for too long, every determined thrust an amendment, seeking to give as much pleasure as it takes. Much of Sherlock’s face is concealed behind his forearm, as his head turns from side to side. John kisses the scar again, the farthest he can reach.

“Sherlock, look at me.” Please. _I love you_. Blurting it out in the middle of heated sex would somehow dent the solemnity, so John doesn’t. But it’s on the tip of his tongue. _Some day_.

Sherlock lowers his arm, his face beautifully distorted. John growls, driving even deeper. Without as much as a harsh cry, Sherlock’s body pulls suddenly rigid, his semen generously splattering the hair on John’s chest, then the lower abdomen. He shivers some more as John rocks on, a mild distress on his brows.

“No, no, oh.” Sherlock weakly clenches at the pillow. The erratic movement against his sensitive tissue is not prolonged. John comes soon enough, the low rumble in his chest echoing that in the dark clouds. Sherlock pulls him down, joy and bewilderment sparkling in his eyes. John laughs. He catches his breath to kiss Sherlock properly on the mouth, their chests pressed together.

 _Let the rain pour._ Flooded or not, they will deal with it, later.

\---

The erotic smell notwithstanding, the room has been considerably quenched, now that it’s actually raining. The sheets have gotten a bit filthy, but John intends to stay there for a while. Sherlock easily fits into his cradle despite the physical disproportion. His curls are a sweaty mess in John’s face, but his left shoulder is flawlessly smooth against John’s. Suddenly, John’s own doesn’t look so bad.

The downpour outside drowns the silence within. It’s not supposed to last long.

“I owe you so much,” John murmurs. He would still rather not say that line to Sherlock’s face.

“It’s fine, I waited.” For a man that’s 90% bones, Sherlock is practically boneless right now. He chuckles softly, bringing up John’s knuckles to his lips. “Give to me then, any time.”

 _Yes, for the rest of my life_. But John doesn't say it; it might sound pesky. _Someday_. His cock, now properly flaccid, rests in a slick pool of sweat and cum against Sherlock’s arse.

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This is actually me making peace with S3. I still think it's fifty shades of fucked-up.  
> 1\. Miss Watson is alive and well, probably off to boarding school. I'm just not including her in a story centred on her papa's ED.  
> 2\. Lung cancer is not sexy, kids. (Not that you should be reading this if you really are a kid, srsly) Smoking is only involved because these two are screwed up anyway.  
> 3\. Please leave thoughts, I like getting them. Thank you!


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